The Camera (Justin Bieber Competition)

Okay, I am not a fan, but because Fan Fiction is such a popular category on Movellas I decided to give it a go to see if I could write a successful Fan Fiction piece for the competition, As Long As You Love Me. Enjoy, and please comment on what you think as I am new to this. Thank you!

Molly is a teenage writer who hates nothing more than her own life. Her parents are pushy, her agent is pushy, and the pushiest person of all is the film producer who wants to turn her book into a blockbuster movie. It should seem like a dream, but when Max Champagne wants none other than Justin Bieber to star alongside Molly as the main characters, she can't imagine anything worse.

4. Meeting Justin

I broke my Belvita bar into miniature ant-sized crumbs as the taxi took me to my Pastry photo shoot. I had a tight knot deep in the pit of my stomach- and I knew it wasn't anything to do with the fact that I hadn't eaten since yesterday lunchtime.

I was meeting Justin Bieber in less than four hours.

The pink sky outside was turning bluer by the minute, and flocks of birds flew wordlessly over the rooftops. I wondered, if I was normal, what I would be doing at this moment in time. As it was half six on a Sunday morning I probably would be still asleep, and then when I did wake up it would be homework all morning. Normally on Sunday afternoons me and mum would go to Kew Gardens and spend some time sketching the beautiful plants and herbs; but since I became a published author there wasn't time for that.

In some ways I regret it. But then I think, what else would I be doing with my life?

Three months ago, when I was still at school, my life wasn't exactly perfect but it wasn't bad either. I was average at everything: sports, music, drama, lessons, everything I was expected to do at school and nothing more. Sometimes I was so silent that the teachers' eyes would hover above my seat for a moment in registration and then move on to the next person like I didn't even exist.

I had quite a small group of friends, and when I say friends they weren't what a normal teenager would call friends. I never invited them over to my house, and they never invited me to theirs; we weren't close in any way, but that was fine by me. Since my dad left me when I was six I didn't care for any relationships except from ones I couldn't avoid.

Sometimes I wish that I could go back to that time. But then I realised how horribly lonely it was, and decided for the latter.

Yawning, I flicked through the brochure the Pastry team had sent me when they contacted my manager to ask if I would consider being a Pastry Girl. The girls looked beautiful, buoyant, carefree; the exact opposite of what I was feeling now. I had done a couple of amateur photo shoots before, for John Lewis and GAP, but apart from that I was a complete beginner. The only plus I could think of was the free shoes. I had my eye on some purple high-tops.

* * *

"And... Pout. That's it. Show me those gorgeous lips."

I stuck my lips out in what I hoped is what this obviously homosexual man was telling me to do. My hair was backcombed and sprayed so much that it didn't even feel like mine any more. My face was so heavily made up that when I tried to move my mouth or my eyebrows I felt like I was wearing a clay mask and it cracked. The only thing I liked about my appearance were the purple canvas high tops on my feet, the only thing I had asked for.

The only thing I had ever asked for at times like these.

I had been through about five outfit changes, three different nail colours and about half a million cans of hairspray; but I was still wired after the can of Red Bull I gulped down before the shoot to keep me awake after my terrible sleep last night.

The reminder of my nightmare meeting in less than an hour immediately altered my facial expression. The cameraman seemed to give up and sighed, stepping away from his expensive-looking equipment which I thought was a camera.

"Well..." He looked back at the camera doubtfully. "I can't say you're a natural, but..." I waited for him to finish, dying to scrub this muck from my face. "You're certainly a doll."

Great. That's all the feedback I got. I was a doll, whatever that meant.

Without looking back at the man or his camera, I grabbed my backpack and headed out the studio door, picking up a bottle of water on the way. Less than fifty five minutes to go, I told myself. Feeling slightly nauseous, I headed to the Ladies and using the make up wipes I brought from home I wiped all the slap from my face and brushed out my mess of a hair, pulling it into a plain ponytail.

"How was it?" Maggie leapt on me as soon as I reached the foyer. I smiled weakly.

"Well, I got these," I motioned to my new shoes, "And the cameraman was... nice."

Maggie nodded, like she understood, but I could tell she didn't. "Great!" She remarked cheerfully. For a second she shifted on one foot to another. "Well... Justin's flight was earlier than expected this morning, so he's around here now to meet you."

My heart stopped beating. My blood turned to ice. I almost began to cry with sheer panic, but instead I gulped everything back and put on the most distinguished voice I could. "He's... here? Now?"

"Yes, he's with your mother in Studio Two." She offered me a mirror, but my hands seemed to be frozen to my sides. "He's with my... mother?"

Oh God. This was not good.

"I'd come quickly. When I left she was just launching into your first Christmas Nativity play."

Please, God, strike me down now. However, I doubt Justin would know what a Nativity was. I was safe for now, but Maggie was right, I'd better go before she started to explain what it was.

My vision grew slightly blurred as I headed down the corridor, following Maggie, and entered the clean empty wood-panelled room. Being overwhelmed was not the right word. Try outrageously horrified and that was a little closer to the way I was feeling. As we moved further into the room all I saw was my erratic, crazy, completely loveable mother with her back turned to me, sitting on a small bench next to... Next to him.

All of it was him. For one moment, it was just him I saw. Hearing my involuntary gasp, he stiffened, straightened, got up from the bench and turned to face me.

Justin was taller than I had imagined him to be, and more muscular too. The famous hair was, as per usual I supposed, in a perfect quiff, the bronze streaks utterly complimenting the brown flecks so immaculately it couldn't be human. He had a tight fitted white vest on under a light casual denim shirt; I tried not to look too long at the solid muscles just visible underneath. On his lower body he wore dark, almost black jeans with bright purple high tops. I looked down at my shoes, then at his, and turned a bright red.

We were wearing the exact same shoes.

Justin looked down at his feet at almost the same time I did, and instead of being embarrassed he laughed.

"Purple's my favourite colour, you know," he told me.

There were so many things I wanted to say, that of course I knew that his favourite colour was purple because everybody did, it was in almost every magazine in the whole world, that I was just so scared to be in his overwhelming presence, that I found him... Sort of beautiful.

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